


Entertaining The Thought

by hellhoundsprey



Series: ficlet prompts [20]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Choking, Dirty Talk, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Orgasm Control, Selfcest, Unsafe Sex, implied wincest, no pre-discussed consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24925900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Prompt: Today is a great day. Thank you!! How about Samcest. Early season Sam permastuck somewhere in the future timeline?
Relationships: Sam Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: ficlet prompts [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/478657
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	Entertaining The Thought

**Author's Note:**

  * For [awabubbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/awabubbles/gifts).



> Imma go with some good ol’ bunker PWP with this one; older!sam POV.

There have been too many deaths, too many universes ending and being born.

Sam swears he can’t remember.

Hears the kid holding his breath, pushing his entire meager body back into the wall that is Sam, now—tortured and still standing and steel and fire.

He doesn’t know anything, yet.

Forgets to swallow back that gravelly, “Fuck,” upon Sam forcing them even closer, grinding his semi where not even Dean had been yet, at that point.

Kid keeps his hands out of the way, maybe half-knowing he won’t be able to make any impact anyway.

Sam hasn’t forgotten about that side of himself, though.

The needy, secret part. That yearned to be discovered by someone, anyone. How he spent years fantasizing someone would just take the lead, drag him down with them.

College freshman him makes a pillow-noise upon current him peeling those boxers off his ass. Pulls his knees a little higher into his fetus position; in one of now-Sam’s newer shirts. Fits him like Dean’s used to, Dad’s used to. But it’s Sam’s, now.

Sam swears he can taste the uptick of that pulse.

His own, maybe. Or: as well.

He’s commando in his pajama pants and he feels himself going too hard too fast; the lazy, patient tick of it as he hocks some spit into his hand, brings it right to where the kid obviously needs it—rubs him up-down there, first, before he angles his middle finger right and presses in.

Past-him shivers, pointedly silent.

“It’s gonna hurt,” mumbles Sam, and his own voice feels foreign in his throat, his chest. No reply. “You’re gonna fucking love it.”

Kid tenses—not with the lack of experience, no, because God, how many hours did he spend in bathrooms, locked away and Dean pounding on the door, FUCKING HURRY UP IN THERE, and the adrenaline always helped so so well—and squirms, uncomfortable but unsure if he should (could) retract himself from Sam’s greed. Bites back a complaint upon finger number two with the first one only halfway in yet.

Sam advises, “Breathe,” low and quiet and the bunker hums around them. Dean is marathoning LOTR in his room down the hall; the whisper-hints of the battle rackets reach them all the way in here.

Kid-him does as he’s told—shaky, hesitantly.

It’s perfect.

Sam corkscrews his finger deep into that pink, until there’s only knuckles and the threat of his entire hand. Kid’s slowly getting into it, then, and Sam can’t tell if he’s disgusted or amused at the push-back of that body.

“Made for this, weren’t you?”

No hesitation, “Yeah,” wet around the edges and nearly falling apart.

Sam didn’t even get his dick out yet.

“Gonna do this every night. You got that? Gonna use you,” and Sam’s voice is a lone growl cutting through the silence, the choked need of his younger self writhing on his hand. “Like you need it. Maybe ask Dean, what do you think?”

His other self whimpers. Milks Sam’s fingers without his say-so, slurs, “Please,” with his face pressed into the pillow, turned away, hiding.

“Yeah.” Sam scoffs. “Yeah, you’d let us, huh?”

Not wet enough for three fingers; Sam has to pull them back out, roll to his other side to get at the lone, innocent nightstand. Shoves away condoms to get at the lube; two generous dollops of it, more than enough.

Back on his left, he pulls his cock out of its too-soft cotton containment, strokes himself with his dry hand before he spreads some of the lube here. His younger self scrambles to shove the blanket off and Sam lets him put one white-knuckled hand on his own ass to spread himself.

Sam rumbles, “Fuck,” with hair falling into his eyes, his cock blindly humping at _his own_ gash. Formerly his.

There’s no need for patience or sweet words. Too easy to get a hold of the base of his cock and hold it in place so he can start to force it past the understandable resistance—the crown pushes inside with a hiss from himself, a gulp of nothing from the kid.

Again, “Fuck,” and Sam settles here, hand off so he can put it on Sam’s hip instead, hold him in place as he rocks himself deeper in slow, even strokes. Tips his head back and breathes, blissed out by the pressure, the soft-not-soft suction tucked away all slutty and safe.

Kid’s gonna be fucking _altered_ after Sam’s done with him.

“Gonna give you all of it. Like we always wanted,” he warns, and brings his palm down hard across that ass when he sees that hand worming between those tight-clamped legs; Sam yelps, mainly for the shock. “Absolutely not. You come on this or not at all.”

A light-headed sob—no tears, all precome.

Sam tucks another couple of inches up those guts and rolls his hips all lazy, with relish.

Praises, “There you go,” and slowly but surely switches his movements to something quicker, something fluid and deep and uncaring. Up on one elbow, he can lets his head droop, can nose behind that scarlet ear, into the now-unfamiliar length of his hair. Can graze his teeth along his skin, here, before he sucks at it, bites at it, while he continues to hollow the kid out right.

Steals his hand underneath that borrowed shirt to pinch at a nipple, pull at it all mean until finally, a noise stutters from that mouth.

Sam takes that opportunity to punch him out even deeper; mean quick snaps of his hips that allow him to grind his pubes up against that tailbone soon enough.

Former him grunts lovesick sounds for that. Works himself into a song like that which Sam muffles with his own mouth, licks and drinks and makes Sam crane his neck for it, fucks him so precise that their teeth click on occasion.

Sam can’t explain the taste of Sam’s mouth. Wrings a hand around that throat and presses down, thumbnail into that skin and fuck, the roll of those eyes to nothing but white before they flutter, violet, in sheer bliss.

“Better come soon, I’m about to blow.” No reply, of course. Sam doesn’t even use that much force in his grip. “Gonna load you up so fucking deep, huh? Gonna be fucking _dripping_ with it.” Adds, cruelly, “Been a while,” just to feel that hitch in that throat.

He belly-groans, slips his eyes shut.

Promises, “Gonna be so fucking good,” and sinks his teeth into that shoulder as he rams in once, twice, and locks his hips to just grind as his cock pulses gush after gush of come into Sam’s too-tight guts—the hungry fucking suck of them and they both tremble, now, with how perfect it is. How urgent it had been, without them noticing.

Sam sigh-slurs another, “ _Fuck_ ,” and moves his hips in tired, long strokes. Works his load deeper and rides out the last urges—the fucking friction of it.

Not a drop of it slips out after his cock, and he smiles, pleased.

He sighs, contented, as he rolls back onto his side, kid clutched in his arm, back-to-chest. Still breathing hard, groaning with just a little frustration. Sam knows they can be obedient if they want to.

“Gonna ask him tomorrow,” mumbles Sam, absently chewing on the kid’s available earlobe, pressing a kiss after. “Promise.”


End file.
